


I Can Hear It, But I Can't Feel It

by writesaboutboys



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reunions, Zayn is Zayn, harry is a sad boy, i forgot how to tag!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23310532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writesaboutboys/pseuds/writesaboutboys
Summary: Written delicately on the neon paper was a note. Three words. Six letters. I’m in it. That’s it. Harry can feel his eyes dampen as he reads and rereads. Zayn. He wrote the note; Harry knows it. Despite all the uncertainties of his night, he’s sure of this. He could identify Zayn’s handwriting anywhere. He once had it tattooed on his hip – still does, technically
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	I Can Hear It, But I Can't Feel It

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! Don't we all love an angsty-ish fic about a dead ship. It's the 5th anniversary of Zayn Malik Independence Day and I miss Zarry more than anything. This doesn't really have a point at all but I wrote it so here it is. It kinda goes all over the place because I have no direction (pun intended) in life. I hope you enjoy regardless!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not know or personally associate with anyone mentioned in this story. Blah Blah it's all for fun. All mistakes are mine.

Harry wakes up to a splitting headache and his phone vibrating on his nightstand blaring Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer”. The song’s horns travel to what seems to be the source of his pain making him squeeze his eyes shut in an attempt to suffocate it in the recesses of his mind.

_Hey, hey, you  
Tell me how have you been?_

He knows the song won’t end until he completes the arduous task of lifting his arm and grabbing his phone. With a groan he blinks once. Twice. And one final time before his eyes flutter against the dancing white rays. The warm streaks of light shine through his window, skirting around his curtains just to assault his irises before he can shut them close again. Today feels different.

_All you do is call me  
I’ll be anything you need_

“A’right enough,” He mumbles to nothing in particular but wanting the gravelly voice yelling at him to stop. His hand reaches out to grab his phone when it decides that’s the moment it wants to dive headfirst into the wood lining his bedroom floor. Frustrations and the dull ache of his head grow together in some kind of sick game of which will kill him first. The yearning to turn his head back into his pillow and strangle any idea of being productive is interrupted by another onslaught of Peter Gabriel’s horns.

“Fuck!” He instantly regrets the yell when the pounding in his head increases. With a huff he quickly sits up tossing his legs over the right side of his unnecessarily large bed. He hates it. Jeff bought it for him as a gift when he finally settled in Malibu and Harry could never be anything other than grateful for everything his manager’s done for him. But, god, a California king bed? The 1000 thread count sheets wrap him in a cloak of loneliness that overshadow the moments of light he feels throughout the day and cling on to every dull ache he’s ever had. He hates them. He hates it. He hates this bed.

His bare feet hit the cold cherry wood floor and he suppresses a shudder as he reaches down for his phone. His hand hovers over the screaming device when he spots a pink slip of paper peeking out from under his nightstand. His slight curiosity is quickly squelched as bile travels up his throat. He barely has time to click the bright yellow “STOP” on his phone before darting to the bathroom. With his head hanging in the toilet, he tries to recount details of the night before. His stomach contracts violently, nausea clawing at his throat as remnants of the night come back to him in a blinding surge. Flashes of long eyelashes and dark tattoos fleetingly appear before disappearing just as quickly. The slow lift of his head out of the toilet turns his eyes into kaleidoscopes presenting a motley of smells, sounds, and images bombarding his lethargic head. Nothing sticks, though, and that seems to be the worst part.

With his mind still reeling and his head still throbbing, he reaches toward his shower to turn the faucet on. Disposing of his briefs on the floor, he steps under the waterfall letting out a hiss at the cold ceramic tile under his feet as the water warms above him. Breathe in, breathe out. So, he doesn’t really remember anything from the night before, it’s no big deal. So, the flickers of the few things he can remember infect his veins with streaks of longing and remorse. Who cares?

He lets the scalding water wash his headache away blindly grabbing his body-wash. Missing the bottle completely, his hand collides with the wall causing his entire body to slip to the hard, wet floor. He can’t even find it in himself to audibly react – the day’s only just started and he wants it to be over. A familiar and not all unpleasant ache fills his left side. Looking down, his eyebrows scrunch in confusion as dark purple bruises start on the side of his stomach and continue down to his thigh. He notices a particularly aggressive swelling over his left fern tattoo. His body deflates with a deep breath, taking a mental note of the number and location of the bruises. He allows the warm water to wash over him in comfortable silence until his fingers grow wrinkly.

Stepping out of the shower he takes his first glimpse of himself and visibly flinches at the image before him. There is a small, but noticeable, purple stain on the left side of his neck in coordination with the ones littering the rest of his body. With two fingers he presses down on it and winces at its freshness. His eyes are rimmed red heavy with exhaustion and dejection. He runs his tongue over the slight swell of his lip, frustrations of the unknown growing stronger. With a sigh he shuts his eyes and racks through his brain for any details of the night. Nothing. He doesn’t linger in front of his reflection for too long – he never does, knowing how fussy he gets over his appearance.

One step. Two steps. And one more before he’s out of the bathroom and fighting the urge to curl back into the warmth and safety of his bed. Maybe just a quick kip? He bites his lip considering the options – momentarily forgetting about the fresh blister – when his phone lights up. Retrieving it from its new home on the floor he unlocks it to see a text from Xander. “Breakfast? xx” is all it says and without a second thought, Harry sends a quick “Sure.” He tosses his phone to his bed and watches it disappear into the duvet before padding over to his closet.

Less than an hour later Harry’s in his Mercedes-Benz SL Pagoda (his favorite when he’s in a bad mood) driving to some place called Ollo. He tries to appreciate the low purr of the car’s engine harmonizing with the birds flying above his head. He tries to enjoy the soft winds pirouetting through his curls and whisper in his ears. He tries to savor the temperate Malibu sun and its attempt to shine light on his dark thoughts. But he just can’t. His mind won’t settle unless he can get a grip on his activities last night – he hopes the knowledge will put him in a better mood.

He spots Xander sitting coolly under one of the restaurant’s big orange umbrellas. “Outdoor seating Xan?” Harry starts, walking up behind his friend, “How California of you.” Xander rolls his eyes and stands up for a quick hug. Harry relishes in the familiarity of gentle arms wrapped around him before letting go. Smiling for the first time today, Harry sits down while making eye contact with their waiter, signaling her to bring menus and waters to their table.

“You gonna take the glasses off, stud?” Xander jokes. Harry considers removing them for a split second before he remembers what he saw this morning. “No. It’s sunny out.” Xander quirks an eyebrow, “Dude, it’s overcast.” 

Harry pouts before answering, “So? The clouds won’t prevent UV exposure to my eyes. Besides, the sun is right there!” He punctuates his words with a finger pointing to the sky where the sun is, indeed, shining through a cluster of clouds.

Xander’s hands shoot up in surrender, “Wouldn’t want to be at fault for the ruin of your precious eyes. Your fans would have my balls.” The comment extracts a short laugh out of Harry’s throat before his irritation can push it down. He folds his arms over his chest, mouth still in a firm pout, “Good.” 

Xander quickly notes the sulky way Harry’s eyebrows are set and waits for the waitress to squeak out “I’ll give you guys another minute!” before leaning forward. It’s a battle to catch Harry’s eyes but when he does, “What’s wrong, sweets?” And Harry thinks it’s such a shame the man in front of him has to bear the brunt of his sourness. Xander’s always been a tender presence who provides a nice reprieve from his tumultuous daily life.

“’M sorry,” Harry mumbles before letting out a sigh. “I think I’m just frustrated?” He didn’t take enough time working through the intricacies of his emotions to know whether or not it was a question. He continues. “I woke up this morning just irritated and I don’t know why? I also have all these bruises on me, and I don’t know where those are from either! There’s a lot of unknowns about what the fuck happened last night, and I hate not knowing stuff and I’m just upset.” Harry huffs before slinking into his chair, refusing to make eye contact with the man in front of him. 

Xander tries his best to appear as nonchalant as possible, squashing down his urge to grab Harry’s hands. “So what? You don’t remember all the details of a drunken night, it happens,” he emphasizes with a shrug. Harry’s hands flex on his thighs giving him a minute to consider how to proceed. He mulls over asking Xander to provide him with more details, noticing the slight twitch in Xander’s fingers despite his attempt at insouciance. The low growl coming from his stomach makes his decision for him.

“So, what caused the random interest in breakfast?” Harry asks grabbing for his menu and Xander’s grateful for the shift in conversation topics. “What? I love breakfast!” Xander’s always been a shit liar. Harry knows this and Xander knows this. So, when Harry perks an eyebrow at him, eyes stuck on the menu, he caves. 

“Fine. I wanted to get you out of the house. I know how moody you get this time of the year.” Harry looks up, face full bewilderment. “What? This time of year?” 

Realization hits Xander hard and fast. “Oh fuck!” He exclaims, causing the scattered patrons to look over and Harry to shrink in his chair. He gives a curt nod to the waitress whose kind eyes barely hide her annoyance at their unwillingness to order their food already. Xander takes a glance around before lowering his voice, “You don’t know what day it is?” 

Harry’s shaking his head ‘no’ and opening his mouth ready for the questions to spill out when Skye squeals a “Boys!” from somewhere behind him. He met Skye less than a year ago through a friend of a friend. Despite her interruption, her buoyancy and lust for life is exactly what Harry needs right now.

He gives a bright smile, feet standing up on their own accord to lift her from the ground in a warm swaddle. He puts her down and the waitress wastes no time bringing her a menu before walking away again. Harry can smell her irritation and never being one to leave a bad impression suggests, “We should probably order soon.” 

Skye dismisses the statement with a hand wave. “Yeah, we’ll get to that. How are my two favorite boys?” She smiles impishly, poking a soft finger into Harry’s dimple, “especially you. I heard you had quite a night.” Xander’s eyes grow about three times their normal size at her words, which does nothing but further Harry’s confusion. Skye doesn’t wait for him to answer, though, quickly diving into details from her week leaving Harry to marinate in the fragments of his night.

About thirty minutes later and their once empty table is full of assorted breakfast foods. Skye takes a bite from her omelet before addressing Harry again, much to Xander’s chagrin. “So,” her eyes grow concerned, “how are you, really? I know today might be a little rough but-.” And, yeah, that’s it. Harry’s had enough of these ambiguous references. 

His nostrils flare with irritation before he barks out a “What the fuck are you talking about?” His tone takes Skye by surprise and she looks over to Xander for abatement. Skye’s wide brown eyes blink slowly before answering his question. “I-well, love? It’s March 25th.”

She continues talking, Harry thinks, and maybe Xander joins in, but he can’t hear anything over the blood pumping in his ears. That can’t be right. It can’t be March 25th – not already. He’s usually more prepared than this. He usually has a strict day’s worth of plans and distractions in place a week before this date. But this year isn’t a usual one. 

Five years. Five years since “I feel like it is now the right time for me to leave the band.” Five years since “I know I have four friends for life…” Five years since that crushing day that followed an even more painful 2am phone call that changed everything. Fuck. He’s usually better at handling this.

He wants to throw up. He wants to run away and burrow back into the safety of his orange and blue patterned duvet his mom got him. He wants to cry. He wants to leave. But he doesn’t; he swallows the lump in his throat and throws a watery smile to his friends. “Right,” he says clearing his throat once – twice. “I-yeah, I guess, yeah. I forgot. But it’s-yeah, it’s fine. I’m fine.” Harry nods knowing his words contradict his feelings, but what else can he do? After a pregnant pause, Skye and Xander look at each other, making the decision to move on. The remainder of the meal flies by in a blur of sympathetic glances and worried eyes.

Harry doesn’t really remember leaving the restaurant but the next thing he knows he’s back at his house trying to calm his breathing. It comes in short gasps coated by saliva as he white knuckles his door handle for balance. Sharp bursts of recollection hit all his senses at once. He’s threatening to throw up again as he feels his eyes begin to water. He has to physically stop his mind from catapulting back in time to five years ago. He squeezes his eyes shut to maim the memory of his nose nuzzled in his neck, nostrils filling with vague notes of vanilla and lavender. He can’t go back there. Back when he thought it would all be alright – that it would be forever. Fuck.

It’s okay. It’s okay. He can do this. He’s fine. He pushes down the blunt ache in his chest and stands up to his full height. Right. He’s fine. All he needs is a quick nap. Ridding himself of his jacket, jeans, and socks, he walks over to his bed. His mission for rest is halted when he notices the pink slip of paper peeking out to say hi again. Deciding it was now or never, he reaches down and it’s then Harry thinks he’s going to faint. Written delicately on the neon paper was a note. Three words. Six letters. _I’m in it_. That’s it. 

Harry can feel his eyes dampen as he reads and rereads. Zayn. He wrote the note; Harry knows it. Despite all the uncertainties of his night, he’s sure of this. He could identify Zayn’s handwriting anywhere. He once had it tattooed on his hip – still does, technically. His hand unconsciously reaches down to press lightly on his hip. He gasps at the soreness as he takes in the slanted ‘I’s and jumbled letters that haven’t changed in five years. Electricity surges off the page, into his heart, and returns to the paper just to prove a point. The longer Harry stares at the note the stronger the phantom touches become, and he once again considers his bodily bruises.

He walks into his closet, stripping his remaining clothes on the way, to stand in front of his floor length mirror with the note stuck to his fingers. Harry stares as if the mirror will reveal all the answers he’s looking for, but it doesn’t. His reflection looks back at him in confusion and trepidation. The bruise on his hip continues to bloom at an almost alarming rate, especially in comparison to the others covering his left side. Oh fuck. The note. The bruises. The way Xander avoided his eyes at breakfast. Senses tingling, Harry’s feet move faster than his mind causing him to slip as tries to race out of his closet. His face collides with the hard ground, but he barely registers the pain, reaching for a wayward pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. With the note in hand, he grabs his jacket before shooting out the door.

Harry’s leg bounces the entire drive to Santa Monica. He drives in silence alone with his thoughts and the sharp whistle of the wind. He knows this is a bad idea – on today of all days, too. He knows he’s clinging to something that just doesn’t exist anymore. He knows that he’s setting himself up for another bitter heartbreak. He spends the drive trying to pretend not to remember how he felt all those years ago. He ignores the ping in his chest as he recalls the way the honey that used to flow between their bodies sticking them together quickly turned to hellfire too hot for either of them to touch.

 _I’m in it_. It was their phrase. Whenever shit got tough or a bit too much, one of them would proclaim “I’m in it,” and the other would have to reply with “we’re in it.” Harry remembers the last time he heard those words. 

It was the night before the announcement. Zayn had called late, which wasn’t unusual, but Harry could tell something was off by the stiffness of his voice. “I’m leaving.” That’s all that needed to be said and Harry was racing to Zayn’s hotel room where he saw him packing the last of his belongings. Through the tears and the screams, Harry uttered a final “I’m in it!” But Zayn simply shook his head and croaked out an “I can’t.” Harry remembers the fight they had after that. Harry with his ‘fuck you!’s and his ‘you promised you wouldn’t leave me.’ Zayn with his ‘this isn’t about you!’ and his ‘I’ll call?’ The rest of the memory blurs into a flurry of insults and words Harry wishes he could take back. The last thing he remembers, though, is whispering a broken “I’m in it” to an empty hotel room.

Harry doesn’t really know why or how he remembers the address, but he does. And exactly 25 minutes later he’s pulling in front of Zayn’s apartment building. Almost forgetting about the lobby security, he mumbles out a “Here for Mr. Malik?” before being nodded towards the elevator. Once the doors slide close, Harry lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Looking down at the patterned carpet, he’s hit with a wave of faint nostalgia. He can vividly recall the last time he was here.

It was late 2014, a week after the Where We Are tour ended. He and Zayn were heavy with exhaustion, despite being seven days into their break. Zayn plopped down on Harry’s all-time favorite couch and in a habitual act, opened his arms. Zayn’s scrawny arms always held a surprising amount of warmth and Harry loved squeezing himself in between them. He remembers the way Zayn’s words grew slow when he mumbled out a soft, “time for a nap, bubs?” His mouth opened in a wide yawn as he leaned back taking Harry with him. Harry remembers looking over up at Zayn, mouth pursed in a protest. But stops when he takes in the marvel before him. Long, dark eyelashes fluttered across the sharpest cheekbones as his lids dragged down. He was beautiful. He was delicate. He was his and Harry was Zayn’s. Zayn looked down at Harry, eyes straining to stay open. He gives him a lopsided smile and says nothing more than, “sleep,” running a hand through Harry curls.

Harry doesn’t realize he’s crying until the elevator comes to a stop on Zayn’s floor and someone enters. “Are you okay?” He doesn’t look to see who asks, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand before running out the elevator before the doors closed. Every step feels like an eternity and he, honestly, considers turning around, but the door swings open before he’s able to make a decision. One. Two. Three deep breaths. He looks up slowly and tries to seem nonchalant as he takes in Zayn’s appearance. 

He’s dressed in a pair of loose-fitting joggers, no socks, and a simple black t-shirt with white writing. Harry’s heart very literally stops when he realizes Zayn’s wearing _his_ shirt. The white ‘TREAT PEOPLE WITH KINDNESS’ slants slightly as the shirt hangs off Zayn’s shoulder. Harry’s eyes finally make it to Zayn’s face and catch his brown eyes that seem to be oozing with kindness and warmth. He looks soft, Zayn does, and Harry wants to touch. He wants to hold and to kiss. He wants to love.

It takes Harry a minute, but he realizes they can’t stand in this doorway forever. “I found your note.” He means for it to come out flat and uncaring, but the way his voice cracks on the word ‘note’ says otherwise. Zayn’s head tilts and quickly Harry brandishes the small piece of paper. “It was in my room.” He tries again and he realizes he hasn’t said ‘hello’ yet. 

This is the first time he’s spoken to Zayn in five years and he didn’t even say hello first. He tries not to dwell when he notices Zayn take a step back to let him into the apartment. His nose is assaulted with vanilla and lavender and his attention immediately goes towards the living room couch. He got a new one. It takes everything in Harry to not collapse to the ground in tears. 

Harry’s eyes haven’t left the couch and Zayn notices. He sighs heavily from somewhere behind Harry’s head before heading to the kitchen. He snatches the note in Harry’s fingers from where they’re hanging limply by his side. The sudden movement draws his attention towards Zayn and his eyes follow his trek to the sink. He doesn’t move from his spot. He can’t. He doesn’t know what to do. He does, however, remove his shoes before he’s told. He knows how bothered Zayn gets when people wear shoes in the house – before he can stop it, his mind recounts the day he learned this the hard way.

“Fuck off!” Harry’s jolted by Zayn’s loud yell and almost falls off the couch because of it. “I thought you were sleeping,” Harry had said, innocently enough. Zayn nearly growled before yanking Harry’s head back by his curls. Harry yelped in pain, mouth set in a pout and eyes stinging with tears. “Kinky,” he tried to joke, but Zayn was having none of his cheeky quips. “Shoes. Off. Now.” He bites out releasing Harry with a push. “What? Lovie, who cares?” Harry remembers trying for sweet, but he knew, even then, that a freshly awoken Zayn is no one to play with. He remembers the way Zayn grabbed the collar of his shirt and lifted him up, showing off the strength Harry didn’t even know he had.

“Either the shoes go, or you go.” Zayn said with a finality to his usually mellow voice. Harry remembers the way he begrudgingly removed his sneakers and set them next to the door. He remembers the way Zayn curled up to him later that night and kissed every inch of his body in a silent apology. He remembers the way Zayn fucked him into their bed until the pout on Harry’s face was wiped away. He remembers that the most.

Back in the present, he watches Zayn fill a kettle and put it on the stove while turning on the burner. He watches the way _his_ shirt moves when Zayn turns towards the cabinet to grab two mugs. He watches Zayn move fluidly about the kitchen, busying himself with grabbing three tea bags – one for himself and two for Harry – and filling the mugs, eyes rarely leaving the pink slip of paper placed delicately on the counter. He doesn’t stop watching when Zayn balances the two mugs and walks past him to the couch. He watches Zayn watch him. He watches because he doesn’t know what else he can do – what else he should do. Zayn gestures toward the couch letting out a small smile at Harry’s socked feet. Harry hesitantly shuffles towards Zayn, green eyes never straying from the brown ones in front of him. He sinks into the overly soft couch under him – it’s nothing like the one he and Zayn shared all those years ago. Their couch was comfortable without being too spongy. It was imperfect and worn it. It was theirs. Harry doesn’t know this couch.

“Drink your tea.” They’re the first words spoken by Zayn and Harry’s overwhelmed with how much he missed his voice. He missed the way Zayn’s low timbre would swirl around his eardrums singing a melody of love. He missed the way Zayn’s heavy accent was always coated with a layer of sweet molasses. He missed the gentle murmurs of affection that used to pour out of his mouth with a purpose of making Harry feel better. He missed him.

“I don’t like tea.” Harry says and he’s surprised at the sustained eye contact they’ve kept. It’s like Zayn can hear his thoughts since he looks away at that very moment, eyebrows scrunching up as he picks up his own mug. “Since when?”

_You were the only person I drank tea with, and you broke my heart. Black tea tastes like regret and heartache and tears to me now. I can’t stomach the thought of drinking tea with someone else and god, I hope you feel the same._

Harry doesn’t say any of this, of course. He shrugs, instead, picking up the mug anyways, just to have something to do with his hands.

Zayn places the mug back down on the coffee table using his free hands to rotate himself completely towards Harry. “What happened here?” He asks lightly, hand unconsciously reaching for Harry’s face. Harry flinches away before he’s able to touch, causing Zayn to quickly draw his hand back in. 

“I fell.” _In love. For you._ “On my face. Before coming here.” _Because I wanted nothing more to see you and smell you and hold you and taste you._ Zayn nods once. Twice.Like he knows what Harry wants to say.

“’Course ya did,” he starts with a laugh. “Well, sorry about that and that. Was in a right state last night” he says quietly referring to the note on the table. 

“Wouldn’t know,” is all Harry says and Zayn’s face contorts uneasily. God, Harry wants to kiss him. “What d’ya mean?” Harry notices the minor bite in Zayn’s question and hates himself for causing it. 

“I,” he starts. “I don’t remember last night?” He doesn’t know why he poses it as a question when it’s a very real fact that he does not remember. Flickers of sorrow cross Zayn’s features before he hides them with a nod. “Oh,” he says flatly turning away from Harry. “How’d you know I wrote the note then?” And Harry chuckles at that, “I have your bloody handwriting tattooed on my body, Zayn. Plus,” his voice lowers to a whisper, “it’s our phrase.”

“Had. Was.” With those two words all the humor is vacuumed out of the room and Harry retreats into himself. “I never got it removed, ya know? It’s just covered,” he all but mouths, “technically it’s still there.” 

“Yeah,” Zayn breathes out before running a hand over his face, “yeah.”

They sit in silence – Harry’s hands still wrapped around a mug of quickly cooling tea and Zayn’s thumb running over the words he left in Harry’s house. Zayn is the first to break the silence; that never happens. 

“Why’re you here?” Harry is taken aback by his forwardness and puts his mug down with a thud. “Right,” he starts running his hands over his sweatpants, willing his legs to stand. “I can go. I just-yeah. I don’t know. I can go.” The words come out quicker than most things Harry says, and Zayn notices the nerves pushing themselves to the forefront. 

Zayn’s hand finds Harry’s knee with a sigh. Harry almost faints from the touch that only makes him yearn for more. “No. You don’t hav’ta leave. I was just asking.” Zayn punctuates Harry’s dramatics with a huff of a laugh releasing his knee and slumping on the back of the couch. 

Harry finds his voice again to ask, “Why’d you leave the note?” It’s Zayn’s turn to shrug. “Don’t know, really.” Now that Harry’s found his voice, he doesn’t let it go to waste, a list of questions already coming to mind.

“What happened last night? Between us.” Harry blurts it out less gracefully than he meant to but doesn’t regret it when he sees the slight twitch on Zayn’s lips. “Might need something stronger for tha’,” Zayn grabs both of their mugs and heads for the kitchen. He comes back quickly with a medium sized bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. He pours one for each of them and heaves a sigh. 

“Don’t really know how it happened, to be honest. We were both at this club in downtown LA.” Zayn speaks so faintly Harry has to strain to hear. “I saw you when you walked in, but it took you a minute to notice me. It didn’t really matter, though. We were both with our friends and, ya know, it was a big club. We weren’t bothering each other.” God, he talks slow. Does Harry talk this slow? Is this how his friends feel when he’s telling them a story? Harry makes a mental note to send them personal apologies for their troubles.

“Anyways, yeah. It’s all good. Everything’s fine. But then the clock hit 12am? And I only remember you looking at your phone before you walked over and kissed me.” He laughs and Harry doesn’t think anything is funny. His eyes widen at Zayn’s retelling and he pieces together that his doomsday March 25th alarm must’ve gone off when they were in the club. He would like to know, though, what on earth possessed him to walk over and kiss Zayn – in a public club no less. He’s lost in his own thoughts when he realizes Zayn’s mouth is still moving. “- and punched you.” Wait. 

“What? You punched me?” Zayn’s smirk widens, “how d’ya think you got that blister on your lip?” Oh. “Where’d I get the other bruises?” Harry’s curiosity and impending arousal peak when Zayn’s tongue darts out to lick his lips . “In the bathroom.” _Oh_.

Harry takes a moment to marinate in the details of his night. According to Zayn, after the initial blow, Xander ran over and stopped the altercation from escalating. Not thirty minutes later, Zayn cornered Harry in the club’s bathroom to bruise him all over with his mouth and his teeth and his fingers. Harry starts to ask about Zayn’s penchant for his left side when he remembers that it’s always been his favorite side of Harry to bite and lick on (which Harry has always thought was strange, but it was fine. It was Zayn).

Silence fills the apartment, but Harry breaks it this time. “So, what now?” Zayn shrugs again before, “nothing.” And if Harry’s heart had ever fully healed from when Zayn broke it last, he knows it’d be shattered again. “Nothing?” Harry voice breaks and he looks away. His eyes fix on the soft rug under his feet, tears threatening to escape. Zayn’s hand reaches out again, but Harry flinches away. His eyes nearly drill holes into the floor when he hears Zayn speak again.

“What do you want me to say, Haz? We can’t be friends and we can’t pretend that this – any of this – makes sense.” Zayn whispers a, “well, not anymore,” and then the tears fall on their own, then. A choked sob pulls itself from Harry’s chest before he can stop it. After that, it’s over. His salty tears race each other down his face as he loses his composure. He knew he shouldn’t have come. He knew this would happen. He knew Zayn would break his heart again.

Zayn reaches out for a final time with shaky hands and Harry lets him. He lets Zayn kiss his forehead and tell him everything’s going to be alright – even though it isn’t. He lets Zayn wipe his tears away and shush his cries. He lets Zayn wrap his warm arms around his body and whisper sweet nothings in his ear. He lets Zayn pull him up from the couch and walk him towards the bedroom. He lets Zayn lie him down and straddle his waist. He lets Zayn kiss up and down his body and lick over every bruise, paying extra attention to the aggressive one on his hip. Harry grimaces slightly and Zayn looks up at him beneath heavy eyelashes. “Should’ve never gotten it covered.” Zayn says into Harry’s thigh and _oh_.

Their eye contact is glassy and watery, but it’s enough. It’s enough to cause Harry’s heart to clench and his breath to catch. It’s enough for Harry to give himself over to Zayn completely. It’s enough for Zayn and it’s enough for Harry. It’s enough. It’s enough. For now.


End file.
